


In You I Can Trust

by Supersophieuh



Series: Of Truths and Lies [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Agents, Drama, Established Relationship, Gaby is there, I suppose I should also let you know that this is the English Version of "Confiances", Illya is making progress still, Injury, Lack of Communication, M/M, Napoleon has problems, POV Alternating, Suspicions, Technically a sequel to "As Hidden by Clear Waters" but can be read as a stand alone, YES!, and general drama, and... - Freeform, at the end, oh yes I forgot:, she has a lot to do with her hopeless partners!!, this is it I think:)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-09 06:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supersophieuh/pseuds/Supersophieuh
Summary: “You think I am a mole.” That was not even a question. At heart, he was not upset –well, not much. He could easily imagine Oleg asking him to serve as an information source.“Not you, Kuryakin, Mister Solo.”“Napoleon?” Strangely, he had not seen this one coming. He turned towards Gaby, whose wide eyes probably mirrored his own incredulous expression.“That is impossible,” she decreed, “what makes you think Napoleon could be a mole?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Here comes my second TMFU fic! It follows the events of "As Hidden by Clear Water" but you don't have to read it to understand what happens (basically, all you need to know is that Illya and Napoleon got together;)

It was a Sunday afternoon in the beginning of August.  The city of London was overflowing with tourists and other strollers enjoying the warm sunshine. They were filling the shopping thoroughfares and gathering in the shadows of the parks’ few trees and large bushes. Their meeting could have been no more than a mere coincidence.

It had had every appearance of it. In the middle of a busy street, a voice had suddenly raised, calling his name. A cry of pure surprise, incredulous yet delighted. Napoleon had not seen him in months but recognized instantly his tone. Reluctantly, he had turned around to find himself face to face with Conor Seward, CIA.

“Solo, it really is you! Incredible!” And to celebrate their good fortune, he had slapped him energetically on the shoulder. “It’s been awhile! Feels great seeing you again! What is up with you?“

Had Napoleon had any illusions about the incidental nature of their encounter, those words would have irremediably crushed them. Not only did his ex-colleague know pertinently what he’d been up too, but they had also never managed to get along. Which had not prevented him from delivering some platitudes before returning the question.

Of course, Conor was on vacation. This was his first time visiting London and he was enthusiastic about it. His relatives had warned him about the greyness and the never-ending rain, and he was pleasantly surprised by the bright sun and blue sky. His clothes were matching the summery weather: a short sleeve cotton shirt and light flannel trousers. His face was shining slightly under his blond hair and his expressive features livened up as he shared anecdotes about his trip. He had always been good at modulating his physiognomy.

They had quickly ended up impeding pedestrian traffic and, quite naturally, Conor had suggested they continue their conversation over a drink, at a sidewalk café… “If he didn’t have any other projects, of course…”

There was no way he didn’t know it wasn’t the case –obviously he had carefully chosen the day– and Napoleon had known it was in his best interests to accept the invitation .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the short chapter and that triple negation...  
> Since this was more of a prequel, Chapter two is already there for you to read:)


	2. Chapter 2

In his experience, convocation was never good news. Especially when the purpose of said convocation had not been announced. The fact that Gaby had been called in as well was of some reassurance though. Their last mission had ended up in a mess –most of the physical wreckage attributable to him– and he had feared an admonition for is lack of professional discretion. If needed, he had already in mind a list of arguments that would demonstrate to their boss that every one of his actions had been perfectly justified –if not necessary.

Gaby’s presence rendered that hypothesis unlikely; such a sermon wouldn’t concern her at all. There still was the possibility that Waverly simply needed some precisions concerning the report they had issued the day before. But why do it now? Napoleon was out at the moment, collecting the documents a contact had promised them in the center town. This surely could have waited one hour or two…

They knocked on the door and a voice, muffled by the wooden panel, invited them in. Behind his large desk, the head of U.N.C.L.E. quickly removed the papers covering the worktable and motioned for them to take seat in two cozy-looking chairs placed in front of him.

“Agents Teller, Kuryakin,” he greeted, “please make yourselves comfortable.” He then waited for them to be sitting and for their growing curiosity to guarantee him their full attention before continuing. “I am glad to see you. It always is nice to have a talk with my very first recruits. For how long have you been working for U.N.C.L.E.? About two years?”

Illya could have given him a more precise answer, but he doubted Waverly really wanted to hear it. He would have appreciated it if he could have just cut to the chase.

“Do you like it here?”

Illya nodded his head cautiously while Gaby openly displayed her incomprehension. Where was he going with this?

“Good. I am delighted to hear so. You may have noticed, our little organisation has evolved considerably in that short period of time. Many countries have accepted to join in our initiative by “lending” us some agents and allowing us some latitude during our operations.”

He paused again and Illya gritted his teeth. They knew all that.

“That trust we gained, we have a duty not to betray it. I am not telling you anything new, some of the countries that cooperate with us are not on the best of terms with one another… We have the responsibility to protect every piece of sensitive information falling into our hands so as not to  provide anyone with means of pressure useable against our partners and thereby protect our vital neutrality.”

Illya was beginning to feel ill at ease. Was Waverly obliquely calling his loyalty into question? He opened his mouth. “Sir,” he began, but Waverly was not finished yet.

“We have reasons to believe that this reserve has not been respected and that someone has been actively supplying an outside contact with confidential intel."

There, he had said it, and the accusation was quite direct.

“You think I am a mole.” That was not even a question. At heart, he was not upset –well, not much. He could easily imagine Oleg asking him to serve as an information source. Fortunately, it had never happened, otherwise he would have found himself in a really tricky situation. He was nonetheless curious as to what has led Waverly to the conclusion he was to blame. And, if that accusation was the true motive of their meeting, he would also have liked to know the reason behind Gaby’s presence in the room. They could not suspect her, could they?

His partner was about to protest vociferously but Waverly outpaced her.

“Not you, Kuryakin, Mister Solo.”

“Napoleon?” Strangely, he had not seen this one coming. Yet, this would explain why the American wasn't sitting around the table. He turned towards Gaby, whose wide eyes probably mirrored his own incredulous expression.

“That is impossible,” she decreed, “what makes you think Napoleon could be a mole?”

“The nature of the stolen data as well as the recipients’ identities. According to our intelligence, the CIA seems to be the sole beneficiary of the leak.”

“Solo is not the only American working for U.N.C.L.E. anymore,” remarked Illya. If he remembered correctly, two other ex-CIA agents had recently joined their ranks, let alone the administrative staff.

“Dates, Kuryakin.” Waverly was speaking calmly, _patiently_ , as if he was trying to instill some complex but essential information in the brain of very young children. That was pretty annoying.  “The information flow seems to dry up every time Mister Solo is sent on a mission and to be born again on his return.”

Illya was not yet ready to give in. “Are you certain your sources can be trusted?” Obviously, those details had not been willingly handed by the CIA. The Englishman must have used his personal network and, if traitor there was, maybe it was to be found there!

“My sources are my problem,” he stated and, with that, he cut off further debate on the matter. He sighed and looked alternately at the hostile faces of his two agents. “Listen, I am not saying agent Solo is a mole. I am simply telling he is suspected to be one. And this is precisely why you are here.”

He had regained attention –and silence– from his subordinates. What was he waiting from them?

“I would like for you to discreetly investigate on the question, in order to provide me with an unequivocal answer. As his partners, you are in the best position to study his every gestures without attracting attention. But I want to be very clear.” Once again, he set his eyes, first on Gaby, then on Illya, staring at them sternly. “You are professional agents. I therefore expect you to demonstrate objectivity throughout this mission. You are conscious, I hope, of the favor that’s being done to you. I bet no one else would have had your favor in the role of “investigator”. You would have feared a botched job, detrimental to Mister Solo. In turn, do not disappoint me.”

Both nodded slowly, signaling that they accepted the mission –and understood the warning. Waverly seemed to relax a bit.

“Good. From what my sources say, the mole has been operative for almost three months. The damages they have caused up to now are minims, but real nonetheless. And who knows what the CIA might be keeping in reserve. This matter must be addressed without delay. Because if our “partners” decide they can no longer trust in us, U.N.C.L.E.’s very survival is threatened."

 

* * *

 

  _Three months._

As he exited Waverly’s office, those words refused to leave Illya’s head.

Something had indeed happened three months earlier…

It had been in the morning, in Napoleon’s apartment –the place where they usually met. On the one hand, it prevented the American from criticizing the lack of decoration in his own flat, and, on the other hand, Illya was forced to admit it, the place was indeed more agreeable than his. Having been given a day off, they had stayed in bed for a bit longer than necessary. The American’s mattress was particularly comfortable. Illya remembered the thought that he was seriously beginning to soften up crossing his mind, but he had not been able to bring himself to regret it.

Both awake, they were enjoying the calm of the morning in each other’s company when Illya had noticed that his partner, leaned on an elbow, was looking at him and smiling. And what a look! It could have easily made Illya blush –had he be prone to blushing, of course… And not because of the desire he could read in those eyes, but because of the affection, the _warmth_ they radiated.

“What?” he had asked. The irritation he had tried to put into his voice had only managed to widen the American’s smile.

“Oh, nothing… I was simply thinking that, given the time you already spend in here, you could as well move in…”

This had let Illya gaping. Under the cover of an apparently casual remark, Napoleon had just proposed him to move in. At first sight, this didn’t seem like much –the American told it, he could already be considered as quasi-resident. Some kind of practical accommodation in short... Except it was not that innocent. It was about making a choice, a _statement_. About consciously accepting what they had become for each other. Considering their job and their respective identities, this was also the most significant engagement they’ll ever be able to take.

In his chest, something had begun to stir. To twist and grow. A compact entanglement of emotions, hopes and fears. But rather than trying to sort them out, to let them overwhelm him, he had done what he always did in that type of situation, what had become a reflex to him: he had dismissed them as a whole. He had built a magnificent barrier in his mind and pushed it all behind. A stratagem he had perfected over the years.

It was better for an agent. An agent had to keep his distances. A mind focused and clear enough to make complex decisions. Obviously, this method was not infallible…and was not devoid of side effects. One cannot simply refuse an emotion and hope there won’t be any price to pay… But Illya had learned to live with it.

He had token too long to answer. Napoleon’s smile had already shrunk.

“You don’t have to, of course. That was just…an idea.”

”I…,” he had begun, not fully knowing which direction he wanted this conversation to take, “…am not sure this would be very careful. This may…put us at risk…”

“Well,” Napoleon had observed, “we are already putting ourselves at risk with what we are doing… I don’t think it could make it any worse. We’d keep being cautious… Watching our backs… No one is supposed to know how we spend our free time.”

Illya had swallowed with difficulty. He had heard the arguments and recognized their value. “I don’t know. I need…time.to think it through.”

Napoleon had bent down to kiss him softly. Then he had smiled at him once more. But his smile had been sad.

“Of course Peril. Take the time you need.”

And when a needle had sunk into his heart, Illya had realized he had made a mistake.

This had not been the time to keep his mind clear in order to coldly consider his options. This very decision had to depend on what he was feeling. Yes, he was compromised. He had actually been compromised for months; he had finally admitted it in a bubble under the Atlantic Ocean. And, if he had not yet managed to calm down every bit of doubt and culpability creeping inside of him, he did not regret it. It was about time to overcome his apprehensions and act upon that certainty.

Now, there is a big difference between intention and action, and his mouth had stayed lamentably closed as Napoleon had got up, readied himself and went outside to do some shopping since “even spies need to eat”. Illya had decided to wait for him.

He had felt on the brink of a cliff, his resolve faltering and strengthening in turn as hours had went by, but he had stayed in the apartment until his partner had come back. His absence had seemed exceedingly long to him and, by the look on the American’s face, he had not expected to still find him there.

“Yes.”

He had talked very fast, throwing the sound on the outside with every bit of energy he had accumulated in the past hours. Puzzled, Napoleon had blinked.

“Sorry?”

“Yes, I want to live with you.”

He had hoped to see the American open up at those words. To see his smile brighten up again and erase the memory of the morning’s events. He had been disappointed. Napoleon had on the contrary seemed to withdraw into himself a bit more with each word.

“I think it was you who were right, Peril, it was a bad idea. Too much risk. Actually…” At that time, he had looked away, averting Illya’s gaze before continuing. “Actually, I think it could be a good thing to…space out our meetings.”

It had hurt. Had he caused his partner the same pain when he had hesitated to answer? Had he not believed his decision to be genuine? He had had the awful impression he had just missed his chance, that he had closed a door he didn’t know how to open again. Napoleon had been distant since then and Illya had convinced himself he was the one to blame. But now…

The sound of a door shutting abruptly behind him brought him back to reality. Lost in his thoughts, he had reached the office he shared with the two other members of his team. Her back rested against the panel, Gaby was fixing him with lightning in her eyes –it was a relief to know her anger was not directed at him.

“We’ll settle this right away,” she said without further preamble. “Do you think Napoleon could be a traitor?”

There were many arguments Illya could have considered scrupulously before taking his decision. But that was not necessary. All he had to do was look inside himself to see the answer already existed.

“No.” There was no doubt.

“Good. This is also my opinion.” Gaby nodded her head with satisfaction. “Then we know what we have to do. The goal of this mission will thus be to demonstrate the _objective_ fact that U.N.C.L.E. agent Napoleon Solo is not a mole. And if it appears someone is trying to get him involved in this mess, they’ll have to deal with us!”

She had spoken with a fierce determination in her voice and, with a nod, Illya solemnly approved that reformulation of their objectives. In his mind, this decision came along with another one.

Indeed, he knew what he had to do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, end of chapter 2!! Is Napoleon a mole?? Big question!! (just so you know, the bubble in the Atlantic Ocean is a reference (and will be the sole reference) to the first fic in the serie)
> 
> Also, you probably have noticed it by now, English is not my first language. I did my best to translate this fic (and I hope it didn't turn out too horrible) but if you see any mistake/anything that sound unnatural, please tell me! (on a side note, I am also looking for a Beta Reader, so, in case you're interested, do not hesitate to contact me!!)
> 
> Chapter 3 should follow in a few days and, until then, you know that comments are always welcome;)


	3. Chapter 3

The ring of his doorbell had surprised Napoleon –he was not awaiting visitors. Illya’s face in his doorframe surprised him even more.

“Peril? We were not supposed to meet today, were we?” Not that long ago, their rendezvous had not been strictly planned, and they used to meet almost every day. He pushed that thought away.

“I need to talk to you.” Illya was standing very straight and very still on the doorstep. Behind his stern and imposing demeanor, few people realized how human he actually was. Napoleon felt sorry for them. “Can I come in?”

With this question, the Russian was not only asking if he accepted to hear him. He was also waiting a confirmation that they could speak freely in his apartment. As spies, and despite the fact that they were not supposed to talk about their work in private, their employers required they conduct regular searches in their respective housings. When their secret meetings had begun, the stakes in that hunt for microphones had become all the more obvious.

Napoleon did not know what his partner had come to announce him, but dreaded it nonetheless. It had to be of importance, for Illya clearly looked affected.  He could see it in the slight tension in his jaw and the way he was stretching his thumbs. He moved aside to let him in. “Be my guest.”

While he was closing the door, Napoleon had invited him to sit down, but Illya had only taken a few steps inside before turning around to face him. There would be no preamble.

“What is happening, Peril?”

“U.N.C.L.E. is suspecting you of being a mole.”

_Ah_.

“And you know that because…”

“I am supposed to investigate on you.”

Napoleon took the time to let those news sink in. He glared at Illya. Silence filled the room and the atmosphere became noticeably thicker.

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes.”

Another silence settled. Illya had come to his apartment tonight to inform him of the suspicions weighing on him, of the existence of a secret inquiry about him, and of his own role in the investigation. That was a lot, and he struggled to make the next question cross his lips. It was actually more of an observation than a question, a crazed idea he felt the need to express aloud.

“You trust me.”

Illya bent his head once in acquiescent, eyes still locked on him.

“I trust you.”

There was a singular nuance in his tone, a peculiar intensity, as if, in spite of how hard they were for him to pronounce –most likely the result of years of training and inhibition–, those words held an absolute truth he wanted to show through. Napoleon did not know what to say.

Illya sighed. “Listen, Cowboy, I disappointed you, and I understand you decided to…keep your distances. But I wanted you to know that it doesn’t change a thing. That there is nothing I regret…”  He shook his head, visibly unhappy with his own wording, but unable to find a better one at the moment. “You’re in trouble. Someone is passing intel to the CIA and the evidence points on you. This could not be a coincidence. ”

The Russian didn’t dwell. He had said what he had come to say and left straight away, leaving his words sink into Napoleon’s chest and burn everything on their way.

Nothing is more crushing than a bliss you know you don’t deserve.

 

* * *

 

“They suspect me.”

Conor took a long sip and emptied his orangey cocktail before he stirred the ice cubs with his straw.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He would have to content himself with that, because Napoleon had no intention of going into details.

“Since how long?”

“I don’t know.” That was not a lie. Illya had only brought him up to date a few days ago, but Waverly could have had that information for weeks.

“And this is why you asked to see me?” His left eyebrow arched, emphasizing how perplexed that revelation left him. “This was not very careful.”

“I think we should take a break. Wait for things to calm down.” Napoleon controlled his voice. He had to make sure he didn’t sound too eager. “I wanted us to discuss the modalities.”

Conor had turned all of his attention on him, his eyebrows now both equally arched. Yet he wasn’t saying anything. Finally, he bend over a briefcase leaned against his chair, rummaged through it for a while and produced a picture he threw between them, on the table. Napoleon’s blood ran cold when he recognized the portrait.

_Illya_.

“Your partner,” simply said his ex-colleague. “Well, you recognize him, I suppose… How are things going between the two of you?”

Napoleon nodded his head with circumspection. “Good…,” he answered. “Well            , as good as we could have hoped for, anyway…” Connor was now observing him with a strange intensely.

“Who would have thought, right? To be honest, when we first head that Napoleon Solo had been poached by that “U.N.C.L.E” organization to work with a KGB machine, there was a bunch of us thinking you wouldn’t last 15 days without killing each other... And still, against all odds, here you are, two years later, and things are “good”.” He shot him a small smile he accompanied with a wink. “You sure made me lose a lot of money, you know!  Actually…”

And, suddenly, the smile was gone from his face and his gaze fixed itself on the Russian agent’s picture, as if he willed to analyze each of his facial features.

“To tell you the truth, other adjectives have been used to describe your partnership… That gave rise to… _rumors_ …”

He let a silence follow his words, and Napoleon knew he was screwed. He had just been thrown into hell.

“Thus,” Conor finally resumed, his tone not exactly light, “I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen. Up to now, your work hasn’t really satisfied anyone. The pieces of information you’ve been providing have been judged uninteresting and approximate. This has gone on long enough.”

Was he expecting a reaction from Napoleon? He did not grace him with any.

Conor did not display much more emotions. As if something had just crossed his mind, he started starring into space, fingers “distractedly” tapping on Illya’s photograph.

“You are supposed to carry out a delivery tomorrow, I think… It is probably a bit late to ask for you to enhance its content…”

The tapping ceased and his eyes were back on Napoleon.

“It will be the last time.”  Every ounce of sham cordiality had left him. His voice was hard. Imperious. “We want you to _get to work already_. So do your job now and take care of those problems of content. _And_ of discretion.”

 

* * *

 

His whole way back, Conor’s words had played in a loop in his brain. He had left that damn bar quite early, and yet all Napoleon wanted was to promptly fall asleep so as to – momentarily– forget about his problems. As if he had any chance at all to succeed. Seated in his beige sofa, he was staring blankly at the wall when his doorbell rang.

He went to open the door only to be met with the same face he had seen in a photography barely an hour sooner.

“Illya…” His heart clenched. “What are you doing here?”

The Russian looked taken aback at such a reception.

“It was planned? We had a rendezvous. “

Napoleon would have slapped himself. Of course it was planned. They scheduled their meetings days in advance, avoiding following a regular pattern –a precaution that sounded laughable now. His disarray had not gone unnoticed.”

“But I can leave you if you have other projects.”

He had already started to turn around, ready to leave as quickly as he had come, when the cry left Napoleon’s throat.

“No!” His hand had reached out for his elbow, fingers gripping the jacket’s fabric. “Stay.”

A little treacherous voice tried to justify the gesture. He could not let Illya leave like that. It would have fostered his doubts. He would have ended up suspecting something… That was also what he had told himself on that day, after his “fortuitous” encounter with Conor. By a strange twist of fate, he had to choose to appear on the very same day he had asked Illya to move in. And, to make things all the more difficult, his partner had to have been waiting for him…and to accept.

This had made breaking up impossible. How could he have justified that kind of turnaround? How could Illya’s curiosity not have been piqued? By leaving him wondering, seeking his own answers, he was putting him in harm’s way. So he had pretended that had only been whim. He had told him he had reassessed his initial objections...and concluded he had been right. They weren't going to take risks in the name of some random thought he had, right? They had reduced the frequency of their meetings, because, as Napoleon had pointed out, they were probably already taking too many risks as it was... But they had kept on seeing each other nonetheless, _because that was the best thing to do_.

Bullshit. What had pushed him to hold on to Illya back then was the same thing that pushed him to hold on to Illya today: pure egoism. He had proven himself unable to let him go, unable to live without him, and he was taking him down with him…

Illya had turned around and Napoleon kissed him. Passionately. Desperately. Clinging on to him with everything he had. It was too late now and he needed to feel him, warm, _alive_. To hold him in his arms and to convince himself, even if just for one night, that he could protect him.

Illya was holding him with just as much fervour and Napoleon made sure he registered each moment in his memory. Those may be their lasts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was the Chapter 3. I really don't feel confident about it (particularly the end:/...) I hope things are not going too fast and...aaaghghgh that it is still remotely ok...(same for my English...)
> 
> Next Chapter in a few days!


	4. Chapter 4

It was not even eight thirty and this day could already rank among the worst of his life. And he had not seen it coming!

The night before, he had gone to see Napoleon –it had been their meeting night. The American had looked terrible. He seemed to have forgotten their rendezvous and Ilya had feared he would close the door on him. But he had held him back.

And that simple action, that single hand on his arm had filled him with disproportionate happiness. Oh, he had not opened up to him. He had not confided his feelings nor asked for comfort…but he had not pushed him away. He had let himself go, holding him a bit tighter than necessary, while Illya had done the same. During that night, he had thought that, maybe, a rapprochement was not to be excluded. That this mess could somehow be fixed.

In the morning, he had been the first to leave. This wasn’t unusual. Since the beginning of their relationship, they had agreed it would be inopportune for them to show up at work together. Thus, making sure he was not being followed, he had headed for his own apartment before reaching U.N.C.L.E.’s premises by taking a “legitimate” route.

Only, that day, what never happened had happened: he had forgotten his keys. Unable to get into his living quarters and still relatively close to Napoleon’s, he had decided to come back, stepping out of his bus to take one in the opposite direction.

He had almost been there when he had spotted the American on the pavement, reading a newspaper while waiting for his own connection. So he was already out. Which wasn’t actually a problem. Months ago, Napoleon had given him –and, to Ilya’s relief, had not taken back – his own spare key. A small, silver item he always kept in his inner pocket.

His vehicle stuck in traffic, Illya had had time to observe his partner through the window. His fingertips brushing the paper, that little smudge on the front page, his eyes scanning the text and then raising as the bus he had been waiting for finally approached… Illya had waved at him but he had missed it. Throwing the newspaper in a nearby dustbin, he had boarded alongside other passengers and disappeared from his eyesight.

All in all, this had been a rather ordinary scene, but it had left him smiling like an idiot. Napoleon would be the first at work first at work today…

It had only been a few minutes later, when, his personal keys in his pocket, he had found himself waiting at that same bus station that things had suddenly gone downhill.

A man in a white shirt had got closer to the dustbin in order to throw away some prospectus. Then, quite naturally, he had moved aside two crumpled newspapers and grabbed the one Napoleon had discarded moments sooner before getting away.

And Illya’s world had fallen apart.

He was currently standing outside of U.N.C.L.E.’s building, but he couldn’t get in. he was waiting for Gaby. She was the only one he could talk to right now.

The young woman was rarely late but she had perfected the art of arriving at the last minute, and he was hoping today wouldn’t be an exception. He would not be able to enter their office and check for her presence anyway.

Each minute seemed to last for hours until, finally, she appeared at the corner of the street. She stopped as soon as she saw him. Apparently, his dismay didn’t go unnoticed.

“Illya?” she asked, coming closer, “Are you ok?”

“Need to talk.”

“Here?”                                             

“Not up there.”

She sighted and gestured for him to follow. “Come on, let’s go get a cup of coffee.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby shook her head energetically. She couldn’t believe it either.

“It is impossible,” she declared, “Are you certain of what you saw?”

Illya would have liked to answer he wasn’t.

“Yes.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the same newspaper?”

“It was his. It had the same stain of coffee on it.” Probably some mark of identification, known only to the person come to collect it. An ingenious way to hand over instructions or documents –coded of course– without having to meet. The kind of thing a mole would do… “He was looking for it.”

She stayed silent a moment, as if she was trying to visualise the scene, to _understand_ it… before shaking her head once again.

“It is impossible. I can’t believe it.” She was repeating herself. That wasn’t good. It meant she couldn’t find anything better to say.

“You think I’m lying?”

“No!” She bit her lip, searching for the right words. “I think…there must be another explanation!”

The Russian grimaced. This was exactly what he too wanted to believe. In fact, it was exactly what he had wanted to hear her say. This was why he had wanted this discussion. To hear Gaby reassure him, go along with him, prove to him that he was not an idiot. That was cowardice.

“Cowboy scatters messages in bins while a mole is at work, but this is all a coincidence?  There is another explanation!?”

“And what? You want to denounce him?”

Illya was startled by the aggressiveness in her voice; it looked like she was blaming _him_ for what was happening! He had only been a witness!  She was also raising a question that had strangely not come to his mind yet: what was he supposed to do now? Report to Waverly? He realised he had not even considered that option.

“You have to talk to him.”

He clenched his teeth. Gaby sighed.

“Illya, we must give him the benefit of the doubt. I know Napoleon, and so do you.  He is no traitor and he would never do anything to put U.N.C.L.E. at risk. Not willingly. So…I don’t know what it was you saw this morning, but you need to go and talk to him about it. You need to ask for his side of the story. You know things are not always how they seem…”

She was referring to Rome, their first mission. To that moment when, to all appearances, she had sold them out to Rudi. Illya now knew she had never meant to; she was only following the plan she had been given and, even though she still had difficulty forgiving herself for the consequences of that action, they did not hold it against her anymore.

Here, there was no plan. Not under Waverly’s supervision at least.  And what could that newspaper have hold if not stolen information from the agency? Still, Napoleon liked U.N.C.L.E –and his team. It was the only place where they could work together. The only place where they could be partners instead of enemies. Why would he want to ruin that?

Illya contemplated the cold cup in his hands. His throat had been too tight for him to drink.

‘ _Not willingly_ ’ had said Gaby.  What if someone was putting pressure on him? That he had been forced to act as he had? Would that be an excuse? The CIA used to make him work under duress… But he CIA had signed an agreement. He had remedies. He had support!

“Listen,” Gaby went on when it had become clear he would stay quiet, “Napoleon is hiding things from us, and I understand you are upset. That this…affects you… on a personal level.” She rolled her eyes at her partner’s dumbstruck expression. “Illya, you saw him at the bus station! This is absolutely not in your neighbourhood, and you will not convince me you were just passing by!”

Ill at ease, the Russian swallowed hard. He had been too eager to pour out his feelings. He had lacked prudence.

Gaby rested her hand on his forearm and offered him a reassuring smile. “It’s ok. I’ve been suspecting it for a while now. I’m happy for you.”  Then her voice stiffened up again. “But you know I am right. There’s an explanation behind all this, and he’d better give it to us. But we owe him to listen. Go talk to him.”

Illya chewed on that for a while, trying to order his thoughts. Finally, when Gaby was about to lose hope, he opened his mouth.

“You talk to him. With me he only lies.”

For the third time that morning, Gaby sighed deeply. She would not be getting more.

”Alright, I’ll talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, Chapter 4:) Hope this is ok and understandable -especially the first part with Illya leaving then coming back to Napoleon's apartment (if something seems unclear to you, please let me know and I'll try to clarify!)
> 
> See you in next chapter;)


	5. Chapter 5

Time was passing by and Napoleon remained desperately alone in the big room they used as their office. His co-workers should have been there for almost an hour now and there was still no sign of either of them.

That kind of lateness was not in Gaby’s habits, and Illya… Well, he had seen him leave his apartment with his own eyes; he definitely should have been there already!

He was starting to get worry and found it pretty hard to focus on the file he was supposed to study.

At last, the door opened, revealing Gaby’s silhouette. She was alone and carefully closed the panel behind her. Something in her attitude lacked natural.

“Gaby, there you are!” A bit of a cavalier welcome he realised; a consequence of his growing impatience. “Have you seen Illya?”

“Illya is at the archives.”

The American did not hide his surprise. “The archives?” They had been provided with all they needed to prepare their next mission days ago. What could he have been looking for down there? “What’s he doing at the archives?”

“Clearing off his mind.”

Her face indecipherable, she stepped in front of his desk and stared at him with piercing eyes. “He did receive quite a shock this morning. He saw you throw off a newspaper…”

Napoleon’s breath got caught in chest. He knew. _He knew_.

He closed his eyes and let the news fall to the pit of his stomach. He had seen him. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he had seen him. He had retraced his steps and had witnessed the scene –both acts.

‘ _I trust you._ ’ Well, not anymore…

Gaby was staying silent. Napoleon ventured to look up to her. She seemed slightly angry, irritated, but, mostly, hurt…and worried. What could he say?

She gave him the answer.

“Who was that man?” She didn’t need to specify what man. It was too late to play dumb and feign ignorance. Napoleon felt a pang in his heart. The fact that she was asking showed she still had hope. Illya had been charged with investigating his alleged indiscretions.  It was a good bet she had been assigned to that task as well. And yet, she was offering him a chance to prove her suspicions about that man’s identity wrong…

“Some CIA agent. I don’t know his name.”

She shook her head. “Napoleon, tell me this is not true! That you did not give them information! You wouldn’t have betrayed U.N.C.L.E.! Nor me! Nor Illya!!”

“No!” That, he wanted her to know. They would judge him as deserved to be but he had to clear it up. “I never wanted to betray anyone! I wanted….” The words died on his tongue. Since the beginning of this story, there was very little he had done as he had wanted to. But now that he wanted to explain, the words seemed to flee him, as if the truth was more difficult to handle than any lie. Yet he had to go all the way. “From the start, I wanted to turn them down. They made me understand my appointment as an U.N.C.L.E. agent was nothing irrevocable. That they would get their way, with or without me…”

And those were not empty promises. He was there only because it pleased the CIA, and his bosses would not hesitate so much as a second to oust him should his usefulness be questioned.

“So what? That’s your excuse? You passed them information so they wouldn’t replace you with someone that would pass them information?” Her eyebrows rose sceptically.

“No! Yes…” Napoleon sighed.  Of course, when you put it like that, it sounded rather wonky. «I tried to double cross them.  Accept, to be in a position to select what information they would be given.  To make sure they would not receive anything dangerous.”

And that had been no small feat. Gather and then convey information behind the back of his partners had already been challenging per se. Sort it, analyse it, to solely let out that which combined apparent importance and effective triviality –or, better, indemonstrable inaccuracy– had proven to be an exhausting work.

He had to dive into a staggering number of files, retrace awfully old missions, identify entire networks of protagonists…  Dead agents had helped him the most. Real information about them could leak without much risk and, if their death was recent enough, chances were his handlers didn’t know about it yet. His position and the research they had to do in order to prepare their missions allowed him in U.N.C.L.E.’s confidential archives. Suddenly spending his days there would however have been suspect, and he had found himself in a difficult balancing act, all the while juggling with truths and lies. But it had been worth it, he had convinced himself of that.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Gaby had gotten closer and was staring at him in the eyes. It was not just a reproach or the expression of her regrets; she expected an explanation.

“I couldn’t …”

“You could Napoleon. I know you’ve been used to working alone for a long time, but this is not the case anymore. You think you couldn’t trust us? That we wouldn’t have understood?”

“No.” Even though the thought of disappointing them hadn’t been particularly uplifting. ”It did not…concern you.”

“It did not concern us?!” She would have yelled at him had she been able to do so without drawing attention. Instead, she expelled each word as if their passing through her throat alone could have been enough to strangle her, a death glare set on him. That was not much more enjoyable.  “You think we did not feel concerned when we learned that you had been suspected for _weeks_? You think Illya did not look concerned this morning when I found him standing out there with a gloomy aura so powerful it made people cross the street?”

“Well, _that_ was exactly the problem!” This time, he was the one trying to hold back from raising his voice. ”You know Illya. He would never have accepted this.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t have accepted it either!”

“I know. I was just…scared. Of what you could have done. To make it stop.”  What if they had gone all the way to a confrontation?  If they had stepped in?

“We would have found a solution…”

“What if it hadn’t been the case? What if he had thought the only solution was to take care of those men himself? –because he would have. If he had thought he had to, he would have.”

“Napoleon…”

"I couldn’t, ok! I couldn’t let him…let them… The consequences were…” Way too easy to imagine. He knew the fear of losing his partner. He had felt it in the past. And he refused to play an active part in its revival. To be the cause of a danger he could have averted. He felt guilty for proving himself incapable of handling his own emotions. Gaby did not deserve to witness this blast of anxiety. But it had been eating him for far too long. And she was the only one with whom he could share it. ‘I couldn’t…”

As quickly as they had come, the words had gone, leaving him shaken, unable to go on. But was there something left to say?

He felt more than he saw Gaby moving. She walked around the desk, kneeled beside his chair and took his hand in hers. When she talked, her voice was surprisingly soft.

“I know he would fight the entire CIA weaponless if that meant protecting you, but you are doing exactly the same thing.”                                                 She was trying to establish eye contact. Reluctantly, he finally accepted to meet her eyes. “This cannot go on. You know you won’t be able keep up the appearances indefinitely…”

A cheerless smile split Napoleon’s face, and his voice finished breaking.

“They know.” Gaby’s eyes widened in horror. “They understood. They gave me an ultimatum.” His throat tightened and he gulped with difficulty. He remembered the moment the photograph had been thrown across the table. Conor’s expression… “They threatened to come after Illya.”

Gaby had the diplomacy not to question him about the bond they shared, or about his blackmailers’ certainties.

“When?”

“Yesterday.  In the future, my deliveries will have to be more… _pertinent_.”

She bit her tongue. He was awaiting new reproaches, questions about his plans, his intentions, but nothing came. She seemed lost in contemplation of the disaster and of its consequences. And how he understood her! He had spent hours fighting in that endless pit.

“At first, I thought about disappearing. I’d have left a note so that U.N.C.L.E. would know to be wary of my successor. But…” He shook his head, fatalistic. “They would kill him anyway. In reprisal. Or as an example.”

He had failed. He had put Illya in danger more surely than if he had stepped aside from U.N.C.L.E. from the start. And now…

“I am trapped. And I dragged him down with me.”

“We must go see Waverly.” Gaby had pulled herself together and her eyes were shining with determination again. “It is not too late! And he is the only one who can still do something.”

“Gaby…”

“No.” She had straightened up and was attempting to get him on his feet by pulling the hand she still held in a firm grip. “I know what I’m saying. The CIA made a commitment, and they have a public image. Officially, they won’t be able to justify what they did. If we can prove it… If you provide him with enough elements… Waverly has influence; if he’s got means of pressure, he will be able to negotiate. Illya’s safety could be part of the deal.”

She had set her mind, and her conviction seemed to strengthen with every passing second. Maybe she simply needed to convince herself this could actually work, that the situation was not yet desperate. Still, much to his surprise, Napoleon realised some of her conviction was rubbing off on him. This wouldn’t last, he knew it. So he held onto it and, without taking the time to think it through, he jumped to his feet.

If there was something to attempt, he had to go. Now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter once again, sorry:/ Since I choose to alternate the POV in each one, I ended up with shorter chapters than what I am used to so it feels a bit strange^^
> 
> I am also sorry if it feels like nothing is happening and/or if my english sucks...(mmggh i swear I tried!!)
> 
> Hope you'll like what's to come and see you in a few days for the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

Illya would have been unable to say how long he had stayed at the archives. Calm down had taken him a considerable amount of time. He hadn’t even opened a single folder. Pretending to be working had seemed futile –not to mention that he couldn’t take the risk to damage any valuable document. At first he had paced the room up and down, randomly funnelling into aisles lined with crowded shelves. He didn’t remember having met anyone. Then at least nobody had tried calling out to him. Good for them.

He had finally settled down on a chair too small, in front of a reading table illuminated by a golden lamp. He had put his hands on the wood; fingers spread apart, and had waited for the slight tremors to fade. Then he had closed his eyes, taken in a deep breath, and regretted not to be in their office with Gaby and Napoleon.

His decision not to confront him directly had been perfectly logical. He was in no state to talk; and being told another lie would have been painful. But it was an ordeal he should have gone through.

Deep down, he felt ashamed for sending Gaby in his place. Like some schoolboy unable to approach a mate that would send a friend scouting. Whatever Napoleon had to say, he should have been there to listen.

He had got up and headed straight for their office…only to find it empty, without even a note left for him.

He had to find them.

A quick visit to the reception desk taught him they had not left the building. He set off on their trail, interrogating whoever crossed his path, until, finally, a secretary remembered having seen them heading towards Waverly’s office.

That was another hard blow. So then, they had come to some sort of agreement. They had taken a decision and acted upon it. Without him. Now of course he did not deserve anything else. He had deserted them; he had no right to feel hurt. But he wasn’t going to waste time either.

He strode through the corridors, crossed the anteroom, and, without giving the employee the opportunity to announce him, opened the door standing between him and his boss.

Three faces turned to meet him: Waverly’s, mildly surprised, Gaby’s, visibly embarrassed, and Napoleon’s, awfully guilty.

The young woman gestured discreetly at him while mouthing that they’ll ‘ _talk about it later_ ’ or something akin.

Napoleon spoke to him loud and clear, disregarding every rule of good conduct he should have observed.

“Peril, I can explain...”

That was a terrible introduction –so uncharacteristic of him. Everything in his attitude contrasted with the façade of nonchalant confidence he usually displayed. There was fear in his eyes and he looked strangely crushed in his chair. He was fixing him intently and speaking with haste.

“I’ve been careful. They got nothing important…”

The not-so-subtle sound of throat clearing interrupted him.

“Agent Kuryakin, since you choose not to knock, could you at least close the door behind you?” Once that was done, Waverly invited him to “take a seat” while gesturing at an old armchair in the corner of the room. It could have easily been moved to join those of his partners, in front of the large wooden desk, but Illya decided not to, perfectly happy to stay upright, arms crossed. Waverly did not seem too saddened by it.

He buried his head in the papers that, Illya suddenly noticed, had not left his hands since he had entered the room. The silence settled in. Stopped in his tracks, Napoleon did not seem disposed to say anything anymore.

Seconds went by and, as he kept on reading, the Englishman’s expression progressively became grimmer. When his head rose from the documents, his gaze shifted to Napoleon and his brows furrowed.

“You affirm this is an exhaustive listing of every piece of intel you provided the CIA with?”

Napoleon shuddered but nodded nonetheless.

“There’s no chance that you could have…missed some of them?”

The question obviously surprised him, yet, once again, Napoleon forced himself to answer.

“I may have written it a little quickly, but nothing is missing, I can assure you.” By the look on his face, Illya could tell he was saying the truth. Each and every shred of information he had collected had stayed engraved in his mind.

Waverly grimaced furtively. His eyes fell on his papers one last time before he finally discarded them with a deep sight.

“I am quite embarrassed to tell you the truth. At first sight, the bits of information contained in those pages seem rather inoffensive…” He marked a pause to observe the three of them, studying their faces in turn. “The problem is that list is incomplete.”

Illya’s heart skipped a beat. Gaby’s fingers tightened around the armrests and Napoleon froze on the spot.

“Sorry?”

“That list is not incomplete in that it doesn’t include every piece of information that leaked.”

“Are you…sure?”

The American looked so disconcerted that Waverly did not highlight how superfluous his question was. He even took the time to answer it.

“We received confirmation that not only has additional information been handed to the CIA; it has effectively been used as well. At this rate, it is only a matter of time before U.N.C.L.E. gets involved.”

Napoleon clenched his teeth. “If there was more, it wasn’t from me.”

“A second source supplying the same recipient during the same periods of time? You understand I have difficulty believing that...”

“But it is possible!” Gaby stated.

“Possible, indeed, agent Teller, although statistically improbable. This is however an option we’ll need to investigate. You wouldn’t have any idea about that unidentified person’s identity?”

Lowering his eyes, Napoleon shook his head. “No.”

“Alright.” Waverly’s forefinger found its way to a small button set in the edge of the desk and pressed it. Illya knew what that meant. Napoleon wouldn’t be getting out of U.N.C.L.E.’s building. Not today at least. “Thank you for coming and presenting your side of the story. We will clear up this issue as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I must also inform you that, in view of your admission and of the suspicions still weighing on you, I cannot authorise you to leave before all the light had been shed on this…incident.”

There was a knock at the door. Backup was there, only waiting for a signal to come in.

“You know the headquarters’ cells. They do not qualify as comfortable but they are decent. You will be informed as soon as a decision has been taken.”

At that moment, four men entered the room. Following Waverly’s instructions, they circled Napoleon before they escorted him outside.

That proved to be a particularly difficult time for Illya. It was not in his habits to watch armed men take his partner away without reacting. Nor was it customary for the latter to keep avoiding his gaze as he left. At least he did until he reached the door.

There, he turned around and looked at him straight in the eye.

“It wasn’t me Peril. Please, believe me.”

He didn’t say anything. Was Napoleon actually trying to convince him or was he asking for some sort of confirmation that his partner has not lost all faith in him? Illya remained immobile, unable to take in what he had just witnessed.

And he regretted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short, sorry... But hopefully the next one will be longer (and something will finally happen)!
> 
> See you in another few days:)


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon’s cell was sober but not unnecessarily uncomfortable. It comprised the strict minimum: a lavatory bowl, a washbasin, and a bed –equipped with a mattress and a pillow that were apparently clean. Moreover,   it was big enough to allow its occupant to pace back and forth without getting sick. Although no window allowed the blazed sun inside, the air was disagreeably warm and painfully still. The only way out was through an armoured door and then a brightly illuminated corridor he could catch sight of when the small barred opening wasn’t close –which meant almost never.

Headquarters were not intended to serve as a detention centre. The cells were few in number and only designed for the temporary accommodation of prisoners in transit. Napoleon was at the moment the only tenant, which guaranteed him an absolute tranquillity. He had been revelling in it for hours already.

He hadn’t been deprived of his personal effects –except for his service weapon of course– and had had the opportunity to watch the hours lazily go by on his wrist. Around 1 PM a light meal had been brought to him: a sandwich served on a trail alongside an empty beaker –he was probably meant to fill it at the sink. At half past seven, the menu was at bit more refined. It was a quiche that Napoleon was almost certain he had already tried in a small café a few streets away –now of course it could also have come from U.N.C.L.E.’s cafeteria. Pre-cut in slices, it could easily be eaten with the fingers (no cutlery had been given to the prisoner as he could have transformed them into dangerous weapons!).  Napoleon had regretted the absence of a fine glass of wine as an accompaniment, but he had to admit it was all in all rather tasty.

What weighed on him the most was the inactivity…and the complete ignorance he was left in. what was Waverly thinking? Had he made a decision? And, depending on the version he would decide to believe, what fate awaited him?

He was trying to keep those thoughts out of his mind –he had said what he had to say and there was nothing more he could do for now– but he had way too much time at disposal to succeed.

 And Illya. He had lied to him, and he knew it. Could he one day come to accept his reasons?  The moment the Russian had stormed into Waverly’s office kept playing in his head over and over. His expression when he had been dragged away…  He hadn’t said anything, had only starred at him, his eyes wide and inscrutable. Which emotion had finally prevailed? Napoleon’s insides had trouble with that question.

He hoped Gaby had talked to him. Gaby believed him, of that he was almost certain. And Illya listened to her. But would her explanations convince him? Would he be able to he believe he was altogether innocent and guilty? Well, “innocent”. Besides, the mere fact that he acknowledged the limits of his partner’s implication wouldn’t mean he was forgiving him. That was something he didn’t have the right to hope for anyway.

Still, he would have liked to know. To be sure he _knew_. This took on an incredible importance. But here he was, in total isolation, alone with his assumptions.

He hadn’t received any visitors, which didn’t surprise him at all. He had probably been forbidden any contact with the outside world – supposing that someone had tried to see him…

Time had passed, the night had fallen, and sleep kept on eluding him.

At around one in the morning, a sound caught his attention. Metallic and muffled, it happened twice before silence dropped again. A few minutes later, another sound, closer: someone was introducing a key inside his cell’s lock. All of the latches were freed and, with a grinding noise, the door opened.

Light from the corridor washed over the dark room and Napoleon’s eyes had to adjust before he could take in the shape of the man in front of him. He had already seen him, he knew it for sure. Yet he had to make an effort to remember him as Brand Walton, employee at U.N.C.L.E’s temporary identities and covers department. American nationality. As always, his neat grey suit and his impeccable haircut made him look highly professional. He had probably not left the building at the end of his shift, hiding somewhere until the time was right.

He quickly eyed Napoleon before he brought his wrist up to his mouth and whispered a few words in his cuff. He then addressed the prisoner, his voice low but clear.

“Path is clear. You’re coming with me.”

Seated on the mattress, Napoleon didn’t move.

“Sorry, but it is a bit late for an evening stroll. And I’ve had a rough day.”

The other twitched his nostrils and let out an irritated sight.

“This is not optional. I am getting you out.”

Napoleon’s brows furrowed. What was Walton –or, more likely, what was the CIA wanting from him? He had always assumed that, should a problem with his new employer occur, he would have simply been sent back there. Was U.N.C.L.E. entitled to hand him over to the governments affected by the leak? It seemed unlikely –that would have been bad advertising. And even if it was the case, he had trouble picturing “his” agency deploy so much effort to get him out of the mess. He would have believed the CIA more prone to absolve itself of any blame, to cover its tracks and minimize its implication. Now of course, if his superiors believed he had the means to incriminate them directly, they may judge it ill-advised to let him “loose in the word”…

“I think I’ll pass on this one. I feel much safer in this room.”

Walton was wearing a gun, Napoleon could have sworn it. Yet it was another device he pulled from his inner pocket.

“Maybe it isn’t your own safety you should be worried about.”

Had he any idea what it was he was holding in his hands? Napoleon doubted it. To Walton, it was probably nothing important, a common object whose primary qualities were to be small enough to be carried and peculiar enough to be recognised.

Illya’s father watch.

He gulped. They would never have laid hands on it had the Russian been in any state to resist.

There was nothing left to discuss. Napoleon got up and followed Walton outside.

 

* * *

 

The impeccable Walton, along with a silent acolyte, led Napoleon to his own apartment. That didn’t seem like the best of places to hide a prisoner on the run, especially since it wouldn’t take long for his escape to be discovered. Apart from the two guards Walton had neutralised, his accomplice had taken care of the two people on duty at the reception. That wouldn’t fail to draw attention.

Maybe they relied on the fact that stations and airports would be searched first, because what kind of fool would lose time going back home in such situation?

Conor was waiting for him inside with a fourth man Napoleon had never seen before. He looked perfectly comfortable in the living room he had illegally invaded. Walton gave him the watch and took his leave. If he had been careful, it was likely that no one at U.N.C.L.E. had seen his face and that his cover had been preserved. A few hours of sleep would help him show up bright and early at work in the morning.

His accomplice, a dark haired giant that never opened his mouth, stayed and helped the second stranger, smaller and thinner, tie him to a chair –one of his chairs, actually, Napoleon noticed as he was pressed against the oak wood. No one had given him an explanation yet.

“Where is Kuryakin?” he asked Conner while the two other were finishing their knots.

“Not far.”

Not far… Within earshot?

“Illya?” he shouted.

“Here Cowboy!” The voice was coming from the bedroom, muffled by the connecting door. “I’m fine.”

His call had earned him a slap across the face, but it had been worth it. He knew Illya was alive and had just located him. Also, he had called him _Cowboy_. Was he using the nickname to show him he was still on his side?

He shot Conor a death glare.

“Why bring him here?”

 “Oh, he came on his own. Which helped us a great deal. We could have lost hours chasing him.”

So then, Illya had come to his apartment alone, and of his own free will. Had he run into this little CIA team or had that one arrived second, cutting off his retreat? Napoleon would have placed his bets on the latter option. Not that it really mattered anymore. The real question was what had he been doing here in the first place?

He had been looking for proofs, certainly. For any track, any document, any segment of encrypted information, anything that would have helped him form his own opinion of the situation. To start his investigations at his partner’s domicile was as good of an approach as any. A crazy thought began seeping in Napoleon’s brain, making his heart beat faster. Maybe Illya hadn’t lost all faith in his partner?

His mind started racing before he had a chance to stop it. Maybe his partner had been looking for elements that could have corroborated his version of events? Pieces of evidence that could have exonerated him from the accusations he refuted? Maybe there was still hope that he didn’t despite him completely…

He closed his eyes and pulled himself together. It wasn’t the time to get his hopes up.

He tried to analyse the situation. He was home, in charted territory, with a potential ally in the next room. But he was also tightly tied up, and none of his skills could help him get rid of this tangle of ropes and metal. And that was without even taking into account the two armed men that had placed themselves behind him and were observing his every move. In the bedroom, Illya’s situation must have been rather similar.

And then there was Connor, standing right in front of him with a sufficient smile, his fingers carelessly toying with the watch he had been handed moments sooner.  How he would have loved to rip it out of his hands!

The living room was relatively tidy. If there had been any fighting here, they had applied themselves to putting everything back in order. Only a small detail caught his attention: the black briefcase on the table that certainly hasn’t been there when he had left in the morning. Half open, it revealed a collection of thin folders with dull covers. What was it here for? Had it anything to do with their plan?

For sure, nothing good awaited him –or Illya– at the end of the day. He had to buy them time.

“And what about me? Why am I here?”

“Because you broke out of your cell to prove your innocence.”

Napoleon blinked. “Sorry?”

“I can even tell you that you will succeed. Unfortunately, it will cost you your life.”

“Oh. That is a pity…“

“However, if that is any consolation to you, you will die a hero, after you foiled and killed the real traitor.”

_The real traitor?_ What was he… “Illya?” Napoleon’s eyes widened in surprise…and in fear.

“Kuryakin, indeed. The big bad Russian. Isn’t he the ideal culprit?” Napoleon clenched his teeth. His silence didn’t deter Conor from going on, a satisfied smile spreading on his face. “The Russian traitor that steals information from the organisation that gave him a chance and blame it on his American partner, proving thereby that those of his kind are not to be trusted.”

“The Russian traitor that pass on intel to the CIA?  That’s a bit hard to believe.”

“The Russian traitor that, at the instigation of the KGB, sent a watered-down selection of information to The CIA, with the obvious aim of framing it. And that, as soon as the leak had been uncovered, had rushed to his teammate’s residence to fill it with compromising documents.” Never ceasing to talk, Conor had slowly made his way to the table and started to pat the briefcase affectionately. “A nice little package, carefully put together. As you may imagine, we kept a full inventory of every piece of “intelligence” you gave us. Each of them is in there. We took the liberty to include that obliging Walton’s contributions. It will make things easier for everyone if all that mess can be credited to one single mole...”

Napoleon tried to look amused. He managed to emit a scornful grunt. “Who keeps evidence of his own crimes at home?  _Organized in folders_?”

“You, apparently, according to Kuryakin. They are encrypted, of course, but they shouldn’t be too difficult to decipher.  And I never said his plan was unerring! It is bound to fail, after all.”

Not really convinced, Napoleon frowned. Conor’s plan seemed to imply that either Illya was an idiot, or he considered his partner to be one. Two pleasant options… He encouraged Conor to continue his explanations nonetheless. It was the story of his own death he was being told. And to hear it was all in all better than to live it.

“Thanks to me, thus…”

“Thanks to you, indeed. You were wrongly imprisoned. You knew you were innocent. And you broke out.” He paid no attention to Napoleon’s ironic laughter. He rather took on the occasion to reassure him about his posthumous reputation. “–do not worry, you haven’t killed anyone in the process. The agents you neutralized have only been knocked unconscious before they had a chance to understand what was happening. They’ll probably come to the conclusion that you had retrieved a key before they event put you in that cell. That is the kind of things you do, right?”

A shallow question. Conor had studied his file carefully.

“Anyway, you came home. Were you suspecting that, during your absence, the Russian would attempt something? Well, you were right, because there he was, hiding _this_ among your belongings.”

‘this’ was of course the briefcase Connor was still tenderly caressing. Napoleon suspected it was his own ingenuity rather than the quality of the leather he was so fond of.

“We considered putting his fingertips on it, but it would have been too much. He wears gloves, just like any self-respecting professional… So, you got in, caught him in the act, you both pulled out your guns, and you killed one another. Sad end for a heroic agent. But, by eliminating Kuryakin in your bedroom, the briefcase still in his hand, you’ll have set the record straight, and the all word will be grateful. “

In Conor story, one thing had particularly struck Napoleon’s mind: Illya’s execution would take place in the bedroom. That was bad. They wouldn’t even need to make him move.

_What if it was already done?_

Napoleon rejected the thought. He would have heard the shot. Even a silencer couldn’t have been that quiet… Bitterly, he also thought that their captors couldn’t afford ending up with two dead bodies too different in temperature.

“Conor,” he said slowly. He tried to relax his features so to put on an expression of sincere perplexity –while hoping that his interlocutor still possessed the necessary hindsight to listen to reason. “None of this makes sense. I already confessed. You know it, don’t you?” It was probably a bit late to convince him his strategy was a mistake and that closed-door negations between U.N.CLE and the CIA was the best option they had left. But he could try, right?

He looked deep into Conor’s eyes, trying to catch any glimpse of doubt he could have used to his advantage. To his dismay, he only saw mischievousness.

“Are you sure you did?”

“Well…” The question was strange… He had witnesses. Witnesses the CIA would have trouble dismissing. “Yes.”

A nasty smile distorted Conor’s mouth.

“I’ve got a different version for you to hear.” He sat on the table and intertwined his fingers on his knees in a studied manner.  “You never meant a single word of your “confession”. In fact, you couldn’t even remember everything you were supposed to take credit for! If you did it, it was because you were forced to.”

“Forced? …by whom?”

“Your partner, of course. Who was threating young Miss Teller.”

“What?” Illya? Threatening Gaby? “This is ridiculous!”

“Is it? I don’t know… I believe he has been seen waiting for her this morning… he intercepted her before she could get into U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters and he took her to some discreet place to “talk”. Then, the moment they come back, Miss Teller goes straight to your office and convinces you to see that dear Waverly… It doesn’t take much to conclude she came to beg you to “do as he says” to keep him from harming her.”

“She’ll deny.”

“That she gave in to intimidation and dragged a colleague down with her? Of course she will! And it won’t surprise anyone… But the rumour will spread the truth.”

It was at that moment that Napoleon abandoned the idea of maintaining any kind of façade. He looked at Conor with pure hatred. “No one will believe you!”

“We won’t need people to believe us. We’ll have proofs. And there won’t be anyone  in position to contradict us.”

Conor crossed his arms on his chest and contemplated his prisoner in silence.  When he reached the conclusion that he wouldn’t obtain anything from him other than a disdainful expression, he asked another question.

“Napoleon, why do you think I’m telling you all that?”

A few answers came to Napoleon’s mind _. Because you are a smug jerk?_   _Because this time you’re winning for a change and you feel like you should make the most of it?_ Or, simply: _Because you are an idiot?_

“Because I want you to understand you can still get out of this.” With as swift movement, he was on his feet again. He made three steps in Napoleon’s direction and came to a stop. “I told you the story of tonight’s events. A sad story that ends with the death of both protagonists. But this is not inevitable. The hero could survive. On condition that he plays his part…”

Napoleon eyed him with surprise. So, they were giving him one last chance. Provided that he accepts to play along. To lie. _To kill_. Because of course he would be the one to do it…

“Believe it or not, we would be sorry to lose you,” Connor went on. “It is an opportunity we would like you to take” From his inner pocket, he pulled out a gun he submitted to his appraisal “I am not telling you should find it pleasant, but, tonight, you could be a hero. Show us were your loyalty really lies. And stay alive.”

Held by the barrel, the weapon was not a threat but an offering. And, Napoleon couldn’t deny, it inspired him a lot. Not that he considered for a split second using it against Illya. He had other targets in sight…

Of course it would be pointless. He might well pretend he accepted, it wouldn’t make his captors believe him. There would be one, maybe two barrels pressed against the back of his neck the all way through. He’d be shot down before he’d have a chance to attempt anything. And the detonation would without a doubt result in Illya’s immediate execution.

“No,” he said finally. If disdainfully dismissing Conor’s offer was to be his last pleasure, so be it. “I won’t do your dirty work.”

Conor would certainly have derived great satisfaction from “turning” Napoleon. Thus, it was almost disappointing to see how philosophically he seemed to take his refusal.  Actually, he looked blasé rather than upset.

No, not blasé. _Contemptuous._

His right hand –along with the weapon still in its grasp– fell back to his side. He bent down and his mouth got closer to Napoleon’s ear.

“So it was true…” His voice was a soft hissing. He wasn’t whispering for the sake of preserving his prisoner’s reputation. He wanted to force him to focus on the words, to let them sink in his brain. “I’ve heard it said that your morals were…quite loose. But I didn’t think you would give in to such depravations.”  He suddenly straightened up and stepped away. “And all that for the dick of a Russkie,” he yelled to no one in particular. Behind Napoleon, the two henchmen giggled loudly. Conor exchanged a knowing glance with each of them before looking down at Napoleon once more.  “I hope it was worth it?”

Napoleon stayed silent. He was about to die; he wasn’t going to deny. And he was certainly not going to talk about feelings with Conor.

Instead he stared up, somehow regretting his gaze could not simply burn him on the spot. Unfortunately, his fury only seemed to fuel the other’s amusement. Now of course, it wasn’t him who was tied down to a chair...

Then, suddenly, the awful grin left his face. “Alright, that’s enough dilly dallying.” He turned back on his heels, headed for the bedroom’s door and knocked three times. Someone knocked back and a voice was heard.

“Now?”

“Now,” Conor confirmed. The door hadn’t even opened.

Something clicked in Napoleon’s mind. The realisation that Illya was going to die, now, in a few seconds. He wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of his face through the crack of the door. He wouldn’t even get a chance to attempt anything. A gunshot and all would be over.

“Wait!”

He had spoken too quickly and didn’t know what to say next. He had only wanted to stop the chain of events. For everything to stop and start again in a new direction. But Conor had indeed turned around. Maybe everything wasn’t lost; maybe he was still open to a proposition…

“I… Stop, I’ll give you anything you want!”

Conor supressed a chuckle.

 “What could _you_ give to me?”

“You read my file. You know what I can do. I can make you rich. You and all your men. I’ll steal anything you want, I – “

This time, a disdainful snort answered him. Conor flared his nostrils and looked at him in disgust.

“ _Some people_ ’s loyalty cannot be bought. A better agent would have understood.” He knocked on the door again. “Go on! What are you waiting for!?”

Napoleon gulped. “This…this isn’t necessary. He doesn’t have to die for your plan to work. He could flee and leave evidence behind. I could attest to it or…there could be a neighbour who’d see him leave the apartment, with blood and…”

Conor wasn’t listening. Immobile, he was waiting for the signal that’d tell him that _that part of the job_ had been completed. Then he’d have to move Napoleon to the next room so that his cadaver –and his blood– could fall next to…

A gunshot resounded, immediately followed by a second one. Then by a third.

Napoleon closed his eyes.

_No_ …

Silence fell. Huge and unbearable. As if sounds had no place in the world anymore.

Of course Conor had to break it.

“Three shots. Your “friend” fought well. I hope my men used the same weapon, otherwise we’ll have to put one in each of your hands…” He studied briefly his prisoner –and his total absence of reaction. He didn’t seem to hear him anymore. Nor to see him. In fact, he didn’t seem to perceive anything around him. “Don’t worry,” he said. There was almost compassion in his voice. “You’ll be with him soon.”

He gestures for Napoleon’s guards to move closer to the chair.

“Take him that way, with the seat. We’ll untie him in the bedroom.”

The two men complied. One to the left, the other to the right, each of them placed one hand on the backrest and the other under the seat.

They were about to lift it when the door was pushed open and Illya appeared in its frame.

The bedroom’s light was too bright and prevented Napoleon from seeing it clearly, but something was shining in the Russian’s hand. A gun.

The first bullet was for Conor, who barely had time to draw his own weapon. The second and the third ones whistled by Napoleon’s ears and reached the two guards who had the infortune to have both their hands full.

The chair wobbled and steadied itself. It all hadn’t lasted more than five seconds, but there wasn’t a single adversary left in the room. And in front of him…

He couldn’t believe it!

“Illya…”

Illya didn’t answer. He fell forward and, face first, met the ground where he stopped moving.

“ _Illya!_ ”

He had been shot. Once, twice, maybe three times, but he had been shot. And it was serious.

Illya had collapsed, so it had to be serious. Not to mention that he wasn’t reacting. At all. Even though Napoleon kept screaming his name, screaming for him to “please answer” or to “move your hand! If you can hear me, _please_ , move your hand”, he was not getting anything in return.

And he was still stuck on that stupid chair!

He wanted to run towards his partner, to take his pulse, to hold him, to find his wounds and apply pressure on them, to just _call for help_ , but he couldn’t.

Yet he was struggling, with all his might, trying to break his ropes, trying to break _the chair._ Illya would have made it. Hell, maybe that was exactly what Illya had done. Napoleon was proving incapable of doing so, only succeeding in tipping the chair over and wriggling on the parquet like a worm –and yet, worms manage to move forward!

A red puddle had appeared under the limp form of his partner and was spreading from what seemed to be the chest area. Spreading really quickly.

An awful thought crossed his mind. _What if he was already dead? What if he was contemplating Illya’s corpse at the very moment?_ He shook his head vigorously, hitting the hard floor in the process. No. _No!_ He didn’t know! Illya wasn’t dead! He couldn’t let him die! He had already let him get shot! He couldn’t…

What seemed like an eternity went by, and Napoleon was making no progress. He continued screaming and calling his partner’s name. Although it was clear by now Illya wouldn’t answer, the noise may end up drawing some neighbour’s attention. The rope obstinately refusing to give in, it looked like their best option.

Then the miracle finally happened.

First there were footsteps in the stairs, followed by the loud thud of the entrance door being broken down and…

“Napoleon!”

_Gaby_.

Truly, he didn’t know what they’d do without her!

Her steps headed in his direction. “Napoleon, you…”  That’s when she stopped abruptly. She had seen him. Napoleon was sure of it. She had seen him and now she needed to go and help him.

“Illya…”

It wasn’t very specific, but she understood. She rushed to the Russian’s side and immediately started turning him over. An entire intervention team had entered the room in her wake. Two men and a woman, carrying what Napoleon hoped to be medical supplies, joined her next to Illya while two other individuals straightened up his chair before getting to grips with his ties. A task that could have waited, especially as, rocked in every direction, he had trouble watching what was happening on the other side of the room.

Once steadied again, he realised Gaby and her team had managed to put Illya on his back, revealing a blood soaked shirt. His face was dreadfully pale and Gaby’s had also noticeably lost its colours. His heart clenched.

“Gaby?” he asked. He needed an answer.

“He is alive. The pulse is weak, but he is alive.”

Relief made his head dizzy and he resolutely pushed away the vicious ‘ _for now’_ that tried seeping into his mind.

The medical team quickly located two entry wounds. So two bullets had been for him… Compresses were applied, a drip was put, and, rapidly, Illya was carried away on a stretcher.

About to leave the room herself, Gaby stopped in her tracks and looked at him. Conor’s men had tied him so well that, although armed with knives, the two agents had not yet succeeded in setting him free. She didn’t have to talk for him to understand her question.

“Go,” he said, “stay with him. Make sure everything goes well.” As hard as it was for him to see Illya leave the room without being able to follow, there was no way his medical treatment should be differed for the sole purpose of allowing him to stay by his side. And, while he could not accompany him, nothing prevented Gaby to do so. Actually, it made him feel better to know she would be there to oversee the operations. “I’ll be coming the second I am free.”

It wasn’t before she had effectively left the apartment that the possibility he might not been allowed to do so crossed his mind.

At the time, he was supposed to be locked in a cell, waiting for Waverly –and God knows who else – to decide on his fate. He could very well be sent back to the headquarters, or even farther, before he had the opportunity to go to the hospital…

Did he even know what hospital his partner had been taken to? What would he do if that piece of information was denied to him?

All he had thought about was to save Illya –and that was the most important! But would he still be allowed to see him? To sit by his side?

And Illya himself, would he want him to?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late!! I usually try to post on friday but this week had been busy ~~and then someone bought that bottle of cider~~ and then there was Return of the Jedi on TV and then it was too late and i was too tired to edit anything^^...but, hey, this chapter is longer, so i hope it makes up for the lateness (lol is it english idk anymore).
> 
> I also hope this doesn't sound too much like my previous fic (I don't know why Illya always end up getting shot with me, sorry Illya!!), so, well, you tell me!!
> 
> I think it's all for now, only one chapter left, that will be some kind of epilog ~~this is my way of telling you it will be shorter once again~~
> 
> See you:)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hey, here is the final Chapter:)
> 
> I'm a bit late again, sorry! (I wasn't feeling well yesterday and went to bed early...feeling better now;)

The first time he had awakened, Napoleon had been there. He didn’t remember him saying anything –he had still been too out of it to hear anything anyway. But he did remember the tensed smile, the misty eyes and the hand clutching his own.

He had been amazed once again by his feelings for the man, whose sole presence was enough to comfort him.

Then he had fallen asleep again, too tired for any other thought to cross his mind.

The second time, Napoleon had been absent.  No matter where his eyes had lingered –at the cost of painful neck extensions– he had been nowhere to be seen in that…well, hospital room, apparently.

However, Gaby had been there, sitting by his side. Her brows had been knit together in worry but she had offered him a smile, warm and encouraging.

Only after his forth waking did he find the strength to take part in a conversation. As if she had guessed it, Gaby welcomed him to the world of the livings –of course there was also the possibility she had actually tried to make him react every time he had opened his eyes but was only succeeding now…

“Hey Illya! How are you feeling?”

He answered her with a grumpy grunt that, strangely, only made Gaby’s smile go wider. 

“Getting better I see!”

Illya groaned once again. The young woman looked at him with affection…and a hint of worry.

“Are you in pain?”

Was he in pain? The question was disconcerting because he found it difficult to answer. He couldn’t have said for sure were his body started or ended at the moment and was overall just feeling numb.

“…tired…”

Gaby nodded.

“That is not surprising. You’ve come a long way Illya. Two bullets in the chest. One of them near your heart...”

“Napoleon?”

Her face froze for a split second.

“He’s fine. He’s at U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters for now. He…hopes he’ll be able to visit you soon…”

“…Cowboy…troubles…?”

“He… I think things are settling down. What do you remember?”

Another good question! Probably on painkiller, Illya had trouble focusing. He nevertheless managed to extract fragments from his memory.

“…the newspaper…Waverly’s office…” _Napoleon’s expression_ “What you…said…”

Gaby nodded her head again, apparently satisfied with his ability to remember.

Once they had left Waverly’s office, Gaby and him had had a long conversation.  She had told him everything Napoleon had confided to her. The blackmail. The fear. His difficulties in selecting information both harmless and able to pull the wool over his patrons’ eyes. And, finally, his failure to do so.

“What did you do next?”

Next?  He had taken his leave, telling her he needed “time to think it through”. And he had taken a decision.

“I…apartment… To help…” He had indeed thought about it, and he had come to the conclusion that he believed Napoleon’s version. He understood his choices. Oh, he wasn’t accepting nor justifying them. But he understood. If Napoleon had affirmed he had carefully chosen the pieces of intel he had let slip, then that meant he had. And if Waverly’s list didn’t match the one he had drawn up, then that meant he hadn’t been the only one to feed it.

Two moles, just like Gaby had said. Working simultaneously and for the same employer. So that, if one of them got caught, the other still had a chance to get through.

To prove Napoleon innocent –or to at least bolster his version of the facts–, he had to confound that second individual. In the absence of trail, he had chosen to concentrate his investigations on anything that could be connecting the two informers. He had hoped to uncover a common middleman who would have information about both operatives. He had thus gone to his partner’s apartment to try and find something tracing back to them.

In case he couldn’t find any clue in there, he had planned to pursue his inquiry in the close neighbourhood, to find out if there had been any recent arrivals or if any strangers had suddenly made their appearance –Napoleon could very well have been watched over. But he hadn’t had the time to do much. He had been busy combing the bedroom when… “The CIA…”

Gaby bit her lip.

“I know. They jumped you. Did they tell what they were doing there?”

“No…just…that they had Napoleon…” The waiting had been long and silent. It wasn’t the best memory he had of that room. “Then I…heard his voice.”

He clearly remembered his name being shouted. He had then known –both of them had known– they were only meters apart. Yet he hadn’t been able to do anything.

Gaby waited a few moments before she spoke again. Maybe she wanted to make sure he had nothing more to say so as not to interrupt him. But Illya had told her everything he knew. Now he mostly needed answers. He gave her a questioning look and she sighted.

“You were supposed to be their culprit. Their game had been uncovered and it was bad for the CIA’s public image. So they decided to put the blame on you. In their scenario, Napoleon had fled to prove his innocence and bumped into you trying to hide incriminating evidence in his place. You would have supposedly killed one another and we would have discovered your two dead bodies some time later…”

It was probably best that Gaby didn’t get what Illya groaned this time. At least it explained why his captors had cut him loose and forced him to stand up. They had wanted his fallen position to seem natural. That had been a stupid mistake. How could they have expected someone sentenced to dead to be intimidated by guns aimed at them? From the moment he had abandoned the idea of not being hit, it hadn’t been that hard for him to overcome the two men. And then…

“I am sorry it took us so long…” She had lowered her gaze to look at the tips of her intertwined fingers. “You hadn’t told me where you were going and…a lot of people thought Napoleon would try to leave the country…but I was sure he wouldn’t! Illya, a few more minutes and…”

“Not your fault Gaby.”

“I know.” She smiled at him sadly. “But I would never have forgiven myself. And the same goes for Napoleon…”

Napoleon. What was he facing right now? What kind of trial did he have to go through? Was there still a future for him at U.N.C.L.E.?

And what if there wasn’t? Surely he couldn’t be sent back to his previous employers…  Not after what he had just done!  Illya closed his eyes and tried to slow down his heartbeat. He could only imagine what would await him there.

“What now?” he found the courage to ask.

“Waverly is negotiating.”  Given her tone, this seemed to be a good thing. “He believes him – it would be hard for anyone to cast doubt on his version now anyway! U.N.C.L.E.’s got evidence against the CIA and he should be able to obtain what he wants in exchange for our silence. But of course the discussions drag on…”

“So…status quo?”

“Kind of, yes. Nothing happened and we won’t talk about it again. The CIA dropped Conor and reports have “established” he had been working on his own initiative, probably driven by some personal grudge. He went after Napoleon because he “left” his agency, and after you because you are his partner. And a Russian too. Then he died. Period. U.N.C.L.E. accepts this version on the condition that the CIA commits _once again_ to respect its independence…and that they tack back that swine Walton.”

“Walton?”

“The second mole. He worked in the Cover Department. ” Something in her eyes told Illya that, if she had been part of the team charged with Walton’s exclusion, he probably had been in for a rough time. Gaby didn’t dwell on the matter thought and carried on with her explanation. “Many clauses have been discussed, I suppose, I am not aware of the full details. Yet…I know for a fact that agent Solo will be maintained in his position as an UNCLE operative. That had been a non-negotiable perquisite. ”

“So…he stays?”

“Yes. He’s in for some serious trouble and on hell of a reprimand. But he stays!”

Illya let his head fall back on the pillow as his heart steadied itself. Napoleon wasn’t leaving. No one was taking him away.

“He was there.”

Gaby blinked.

“What?”

“He was there. Cowboy. When I woke up.”

This time, Gaby’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d remember…”

Alright, now he was certain he hadn’t been dreaming.

“He was supposed to go back to is cell but…Waverly allowed he was brought to the hospital first. He would have been impossible to manage otherwise!”

Illya snorted softly, a hint of amusement painted on his face in spite of himself.

“Sounds like you talking about me…”

“Well, believe it, he too is quite difficult to handle when his partner’s life is at stake! And, after all, he had wounds that had to be checked… Nothing serious, Illya!” she quickly added as her partner’s eyes had already started to widen. “A slap mark on the cheek and a bump he probably got when his chair fell –don’t give me that look, you expected him to just stand there and watch? Of course he tried to free himself! Those still requested a surprisingly long amount of time to be tended. You had already stabilized by the time he left the hospital…”

She winked at him in an attempt to lighten the mood but that was a wasted effort. With a sight, she bended forward and grabbed his hand, trying to pour the energy and the confidence she still possessed into him.

“He’ll be back. I don’t exactly know when, but he’ll be back. Before you’re authorized to get out of that bed.”

 

* * *

 

‘I don’t exactly know how’ happened to be three days later.

Gaby had been regularly shuttling back and forth between the hospital and U.N.C.L.E.’s headquarters, where it was taking a long time for the situation to be settled.

On the third day, finally, she had entered Illya’s room with an ear to ear smile on her face and had announced “a surprise” was waiting for him. She had then left so to give him and his surprise some privacy…

Napoleon looked much grimmer.

Standing in the doorway with his eyes down and his hand clenched around the handle, he seemed to be waiting for some permission to enter.

“Come in.”

The American obeyed. Slowly, he edged closer, went around the bed and sited down in the chair next to it –the one he must have occupied a few days sooner.

He was keeping his head low and his shoulders slumped, accepting the well-deserved punishment he was about to receive. His posture allowed Illya to clearly observe the small bump on his left temple.

“So you really fell with that chair…”

Napoleon looked up carefully.

“Of course I fell with that chair! That was the only thing I could do! “

Illya proceeded to change his position in order to better his angle and immediately regretted it. The pain in his chest kicked back in and he couldn’t prevent is face from stiffening while choking it down. The pain he saw on Napoleon’s hurt even more.

“You think it’s your fault, don’t you?”

“Why, it isn’t?”

The sarcasm implied he considered the question irrelevant. But Illya refused to call it quits.

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“And it makes a difference?”

“Yes!”

The assertion didn’t seem to impress Napoleon who let out a joyless laugh.

“Everything is fine then! You forgave me and it’s like nothing happened at all!”

A low growl rose from Illya’s throat. He knew what his partner was doing and he wasn’t going to let him take them down that path.

“I _am_ angry with you Napoleon. You know why?”

“I think you are spoilt for choice!”

Illya shook his head in irritation. That damn cowboy was really making things difficult. He tried a different approach.

“If you could go back in time up to the beginning of this story, what would you change?”

“I should have…kept you away from me…”

“That is not the good answer,” he declared. “They knew, and they would have understood. And don’t tell me you regret what we have.” His voice was firm, unwavering, and there was defiance in his tone. “Because I don’t!”  Somehow, his own words were making him dizzy. How things had progressed since their first encounter. Could he have imagined he’d one day talk this way about an American agent he’d be forced to work with?

To his great satisfaction, the latter didn’t try to contradict him.

“You should have told me from the start Napoleon. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…” He was clenching his fists on his knees, refusing again to meet the Russian’s gaze. “I didn’t want you to get involved.”

“Am I not involved, now?” That was a low blow but one that deemed necessary. His tone got softer as he went on. “From the moment you were involved, I was too. Why keeping me away? It was useless and dangerous!”

Napoleon shook his head helplessly, seemingly aware of the weakness of his arguments.

“I should… I should have trusted you, but…”

“Good; that was exactly where Illya had wanted to take him. They had reached the key point. The one that the American invariably seemed to miss.

“No Napoleon, that’s not it. You trust me. With you life. Now you need to believe you are worth fighting for. Because you are.”

This time, Napoleon looked at him, his eyes wide and inscrutable. Illya hoped that was progress.

He decided to give him time to process his words. To let him be the one to choose when and how to break the silence.

It took quite some time.

Yet, at long last, he did open his mouth.

‘So,” he said tentatively, “you don’t want me to leave?”

“I not only don’t want you to leave, I also want you to move that seat closer and to kiss me while we are still alone in the room.”

For a moment, he feared he had been too straightforward. Napoleon was still a bit stunned after all… But, slowly, delicately, he drew closer and joined their hands together before he leaned forward. Their lips met and a weight left Illya’s body. His partner hadn’t been the only one who had thought they’d never see each other again.

Only when they parted did he realised how tense he had been. Tiredness suddenly took over and he let his mind drift off, confusedly wondering if he still had something to say. The new silence must have make Napoleon uncomfortable because he changed the subject, trying to sound casual.

“I have been suspended, by the way. Three months.”

“Good,” he approved. “It will give you time to think.” It also reassured him to know his partner wouldn’t be immediately sent back in the field. Especially considering his current state of mind. He tightened his grip on his hand. “You understood what I said Napoleon, right?”

The corners of Napoleon’s mouth lifted slightly and he nodded his head.

“Yes. I think yes…”

His smile wasn’t fully convincing, but that was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaa The End!!
> 
> Hope you liked it:)
> 
> Again this scene kind of ressemble the one from my previous fic but I hope the situation/dialogs are different enough! Also, can you tell that I wrote this entire fic to get to that sentence about Napoleon being worth fighting for? Because I basically may have^^ The basic idea was to explore a situation where Napoleon was feeling trapped and choosing to deal with his problems on his own...and to have Illya remind him how important he actually is! (and realising himself how deep his trust and feelings for Napoleon go) I am happy I was able to include Gaby in this one because I like her a lot (and a good thing she's there to reason with her partners;) !!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and all the nice kudos&comments :D


End file.
